


Sunglasses, boyfriends, and cannibalism

by KaneNogami



Category: Kamen Rider Gaim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, M/M, Mentions of death and gore and CANNIBALISM I GUESS, No explication is given as why they didn't turn into brainless zombies and the author doesn't care, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 21:56:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20071213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaneNogami/pseuds/KaneNogami
Summary: “I'm gonna eat you—”That's the first sentence between them, in the middle of a ravaged flat—curtains ripped off, tv screen shattered, glass shards everywhere under his body, the pungent smell of something dead invading his nostrils until he's gagging—the creature drooling on his sweater, unaware of how precious it is, how it's the last memory he is allowed to carry by his side. It wasn't always like this, loneliness dripping against his skin, nothing but empty streets and buildings filled with monsters—except he isn't certain what was before still means something—at some point he still crossed paths with survivors. Humans not reduced to what's above him, knee between his legs in the dark, a glimpse of white under teeth painted red.





	Sunglasses, boyfriends, and cannibalism

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phosphenical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phosphenical/gifts).

> A long time ago, I met Theo and our first Pecchi AU (outside of a high school thing) was the whole zombie apocalypse package, so here I am again, to celebrate our friendship and my friend's birthday. I'm proud of you, Theo, for growing into such fantastic person!

“I'm gonna eat you—”

That's the first sentence between them, in the middle of a ravaged flat—curtains ripped off, tv screen shattered, glass shards everywhere under his body, the pungent smell of something dead invading his nostrils until he's gagging—the creature drooling on his sweater, unaware of how precious it is, how it's the last memory he is allowed to carry by his side. It wasn't always like this, loneliness dripping against his skin, nothing but empty streets and buildings filled with monsters—except he isn't certain what was _before _still means something—at some point he still crossed paths with survivors. Humans not reduced to what's above him, knee between his legs in the dark, a glimpse of white under teeth painted red.

It doesn't occur to him immediately that they usually are devoid of a voice. The raspy one he heard, perhaps an illusion caused by exhaustion, so low he barely understood the words, is terrifying. Which, honestly, doesn't mean much nowadays. Anxiety and fear are interchangeable, depending on the mood—a sound in the night, when he's stuck between being aware and sleeping, or the wind howling like someone was screaming in the distance—sometimes even able to mix into something deadly and unstoppable. He has a gun, somewhere, somehow. He doesn't remember how or why, only that it was there, between his hands one day, and he never let go of it since. A weapon almost out of bullets, hard to master when he cannot afford to practice outside of life-threatening situations.

The creature lunged at him, horrifying blur of decay and blood coated against skin, pinning him on the floor without playing fair. Infected don't really care, he supposes.

People die, coming back so _so wrong—_he thinks about Mai and Kouta wondering what happened, where they are—they don't talk usually. He is certain their brain lack this ability once they are stripped of humanity. In other circumstances, the kind where he is not going to be eaten alive, it would be fascinating to learn more about possibilities, life remaining—here? Not so much.

“Fuck you,” he replies, when his mind is screaming _no no please not me_ over and over, “you're not eating me today.”

Or tomorrow. Where is his damn gun? Somewhere in backpack. The one he is laying on. He grits his teeth, trying to pull some weight on his elbows. Perhaps they can talk this out, or at least cause a distraction long enough for him to retrieve his weapon.

“Oh?” The demon blinks, slowly, akin to a cat trying to gain his trust. He sits up, disgusting breath away from his face, as if he wasn't used to people trying to argue. They must mostly scream—he cannot, his voice has already done that a couple of days ago and his throat is so sore articulating is a pain—begging to be spared in a nonsensical way. “Your voice—familiar?”

Is it what stopped him? There is dried blood on his hands, he notices when the infected presses fingers against his lips in concentration. He doesn't seem to be fully present, preoccupied by which piece he will sink his teeth in first—he might be projecting, although dark eyes keep on landing on his throat and that's definitely not appreciated—stuck in some weird stasis until the situation is fixed.

“Who are you?”

Is there a chance they were once acquaintances? A blurry face from school, classmate he was ready to step on to reach the top? He received a blank stare in return, lack of comprehension towards the question, humanity too far gone. _Names are bothersome,_ the infected seems to say without a word, _I was human but _ _it's _ _like an old thing, _ _it _ _didn't work out._

Introductions aren't quite in order, not when his heart is pounding so loudly he can barely think, mouth completely dry and a blur in his gaze which means tears. Does he have a choice though?

“I'm Micchi—Mitsuzane—are you a dancer?” He tries again.

“Oh, dancer?”

Each question seems to bring something back, a faint tug at a past which has been forgotten. Micchi uses this at his advantage, sitting upright enough to allow his backpack to slide off his shoulders. If he's fast enough—

There are fingers against his arms, cold and uncomfortable, long nails piercing his skin. He winces, trying not to kick, to start a chase which wouldn't go far. The infected halted his attack once; it doesn't mean Micchi is saved.

“Why can you talk? I mean—the others they cannot, they leap at you and—have you been bitten?”

That's a silly question—everyone should have a contingency plan for the end of the world—especially as he notes the deep scar against collarbone, skin turned a weird mix of black and purple—must be the dirt too, it's everywhere, the flat looking like a ravaged cage—showing no other explanation than a bite turned wrong. Why isn't he dead, then?

“They are gone? They_ left_.”

The creature isn't focused on him, gaze lost into somewhere far away, yet fingernails are still deep into his skin, causing blood to drop against his arm and his breath to hasten once more. He could shoot, rely on luck and fate. Micchi is certain it wouldn't work out, too uncertain. He thrives in controlling what's around him these days, planning his escape route out of Zawame, pretending to know exactly what's he's doing because he owns a couple of maps; the truth is that he is as terrified of what's outside the town.

Being polite is excruciating, the urge to kick and fight trying to invade his senses, throwing caution off the window. Micchi manages not to, focusing on survival and not getting his head ripped off by careless hands.

“Who left?”

“_Them._”

“That's unfortunate, but would you mind letting me go?”

Apparently not. He tried.

“Micchi?”

“Yes?”

“Familiar.”

The infected did react to dancer and to his name. It narrows the list—he never bothered learning about everyone, so at ease in his bubble, certain they would rise no matter what, willing to do anything for that—oh. With his arm which isn't pinned to the floor, he tries to reach for the damaged face, only to catch a glimpse of teeth at the last second, causing him to give up on such attempt.

“Peco?” That's a wild guess, albeit he highest possibility.

The infected allows his tongue to run against his lips, tasting the name without being certain of what he thinks of it. There are objects on the floor—no, remains, corpses having been stripped of their belongings, a gold chain or a wallet laying on the wooden floor—Micchi gags, without meaning to. He doesn't want to lift the blinds, to watch the catastrophe spread on walls and everywhere. What is waiting for him in the remaining rooms? Cadavers stored for snack? One under the bed, another in the bathroom—just in case.

“Peco. Micchi. Yes?”

The lack of light doesn't affect them in the same way, Micchi squinting, gaze darting towards escape routes he can't find; Peco blinking and leaning forward, eyes wide open.

“Are you human?”

“No. Yes. Depends.”

They will run in circles, with such conversation. Micchi has to admit he does feel sorry for Peco, in a selfish way, being stuck in this weird state of not being alive or dead—he cannot afford to waste bullets for such foolish things, therefore he ought to leave this place and never return—must not be ideal. He wonders where his compassion went, although it was certainly snatched by Mai and Kouta as they ran, as he heard theirs screams over the phone—Takatora saying _I have no choice, I love you_, cradling his bitten arm and then walking into the woods followed by a gunshot.

_He never found the body. _

“Let me go, Peco.”

“Why?”

In remembrance of old times? Wouldn't work, they barely interacted outside of taunting each other and trying to see who was taller and the coolest. Can't say they are anything but pathetic at this exact moment. Micchi has still tears in his eyes, the heavy and burning kind, forcing him to swallow hard so they don't go crashing down. He has been so alone over the past—weeks? Months? No one to hold his hand or offer fake promises, only strangers trying to shoot him for being in the way—that he isn't certain of wanting to go back to this, to what's waiting for him outside. Dying inside this flat isn't an improvement either. He feels exhausted suddenly, as his hand, roaming on the floor for balance, ends brushing against something wet—_corpse, corpse, corpse_—what the hell is wrong with this world?

“To travel with me?”

“Leaving?”

“I suppose the concept might sounds odd but you have no reason to remain there if you do not wish to.”

Micchi avoids mentioning Peco wouldn't make it out for too long on his own, probably taken down by people believing to have a good heart. There is a sound behind them, something roaming in the hallway and Micchi curses himself for not closing the door behind him, probably taken aback by the state of the place, panic taking over common sense.

Footsteps echo closer, unsteady and heavy—infected can scent humans, bones covered in something thick and delicious they can feed on—and he forgets how to breathe, lungs emptying themselves in one go.

What would his brother do? Outside of shooting himself, gun under his chin because _it's too much to ask from you to hold it Mitsuzane_ there is no answer and he closes his eyes, having a choice between Peco and some nameless figure, the kind which probably won't stop for a little chat before gnawing on his skin.

He hears a click of tongue, followed by the pressure against his arm vanishing. There is nothing else, outside of a sudden scream chilling him to the bone as he covers his ears with both hands, praying to faceless deities to come for him, to put an end to this madness.

Something slams against the wall in the hallway, then there is always silence. Blood is everywhere inside the flat, against Peco' skin, it smells so strongly he is dizzy when the other returns, grabbing his hands and lowering them. Micchi opens his eyes to fragment of—brain? He doesn't want to answer, to say anything—coating Peco's fingers.

“Let's go?”

Can he take back his offer, shoving it back in his throat? No, of course not. Micchi gets back on his feet, refusing to lean on the infected. Isn't there anything he wants to take with him? He sighs, wondering if the water is still running inside the building. Probably.

“You need to shower first,” he orders, deciding they can find another place for that, one who isn't a graveyard for misplaced hunger.

Peco hums, confused, but not putting a fight.

“I'm going to eat you,” he repeats much later—too soon for Micchi—sitting in the shower of a nearby flat, cold water not bothering him as it should. They don't know how much water is left, although Micchi guesses it won't be enough anyway. On the bright side, the water isn't black or muddy any longer. He is leaning against the wall, holding scissors in one hand to—stab the other as self-defense—trim Peco's hair later. It's a weird mix and chestnut and black, shades blending badly. Without darkness to conceal most of the damage, the other does look like shit. And Micchi has to admit he isn't enjoying to see his reflection in the mirror either.

He patched his arm, aware that fingernails couldn't cause anything beyond a minor infection. Peco cut those off too, never moving from outside the constant freezing stream falling on him. Micchi would rather never have to watch someone using scissors to remove clothing off their body, as if skin and fabric had merger together.

Could this have happened to his brother—to his friends? He'd rather not lose track of the situation right now.

“Whatever. Do you feel the cold?”

Unfazed, Peco shakes his head—there is something in the infected, it's in their eyes, brown replaced by a faint red, the way they are always lurking, filled with hunger—most of his body salvageable, even the initial bite mark appearing a lot more healed after washing it countless times.

“Pain?”

“Not much.”

“That's a relief, I suppose.”

Having a monster with a functioning brain around—perhaps before Micchi would have seen Peco as a weapon, something useful and practical—that's not part of his plan. He has been making one up, week after week until he convinced himself it would be fine.

“Relief? In the apocalypse?” The grin of Peco's lips is almost maniac, mocking him and his silly attempt at conversation.

“Fuck off.”

Humanity seems to return, in flashes of grins and insults on Peco's lips, only to flicker not long after. During their walk to find a decent flat to spend the night in, he fell silent more than once, staring at Micchi with such a piercing gaze that the youngest felt uneasy. Hours before, neither knew of the other, and now they are in the same bathroom, as if one wasn't naked—

Frankly, Micchi would have care not long ago, but averting his eyes is convenient and he is too busy being fascinated by Peco turning back into something almost alive. No use pretending they didn't vanish months prior—has it been that long, the heat of Summer repulsing his stomach each time he walked on a corpse, bathing in the river, feet brushing against corpses at the bottom and fearing they would grab his ankles and tug him down—dying alongside the remaining population of Zawame.

He chokes on air, sitting next to the shower, scissors and hairbrush in hands. “It's better to cut when it's wet,” he mumbles without knowing if it's true or not.

“Don't stab me.”

“I promise,” he lies.

The situation is heavy, streets unfamiliar now that cars have ravaged shops and infected roam at any hour, dislocated joints and groans escaping them. They do not rest, and Peco only follows a minimal sleep schedule. It has been days and sometimes, Micchi wakes up in panic, the other watching him rest like a creep. He pretends it's to to ensure no one will steal his food, which isn't comforting. Darkness isn't a problem for the infected, who walks him through silent alleys coated in things which stick to his shoes without hesitation. Sunlight is another matter, sunglasses stolen in a random shop always sitting in front of his gaze during the day. Micchi thinks they are ridiculous, in the same way he loathes how they have almost the same haircut, matching black hair cut by inexperienced hands.

They argue, in empty hotel rooms, one tentative and the other having pent up rage to evacuate. They shout until they are forced to fall silent, too aware of what could have heard. Sometimes, one of them bothers to look sheepish, although it's rare. Micchi pretends this is temporary, a rite of passage in survival, counting bullets left in a compulsive way each time they are allowed to stop for the night. His feet are covered in blisters, sometimes bleeding and he has to wash socks in hotel sinks, almost crying in relief when there is water, no matter how cold and dirty it is. Peco jokes about eating him, although humor seems beyond the other at times. There are moments where he is too close, mouth agape as he stares in awe at how alive Micchi is, reaching to feel his pulse, to keep him close—it freaks him out to the point he locks himself where he can, warning and shouting he can use a gun _yeah really why are you laughing_—they are exhausting.

“I hope everyone is alive, somewhere,” Micchi starts, clinging to hope.

“They're dead,” is the reply he gets every time—is Peco saying this to cause harm or merely so they can balance each other, one wishing for the past to return and the other unable to forgive anyone or anything—causing them to always walk closer and then to run away from each other.

(Whose life will you ruin next?

Shut up, brother.)

His brother died in the woods, and each time they reach the outskirts, that he catches a glimpse of them, Mitsuzane is back on the same day, wondering what's going to happen next, when will he catch a sight of a familiar suit on a corpse? They remain, stuck with their thoughts, hands joined when night and day switch too fast, leaving one of them blind to his own feet. It's impractical, to be stuck together, Micchi decides one night, when he jolts awake, tears streaming down his face, only to find the bed next to his empty.

He loathes how Peco will stumble inside in a couple of hours, mouth surrounded by red, clothes Micchi struggled to clean last time dirty again—he feels like he's fretting over details, forcing the other to brush his teeth and to wear his sunglasses so he doesn't damage his eyesight—the smell will be unbearable. Why couldn't he encounter any survivor for weeks when Peco seems to find them each time he's on his own? The world isn't a giant fast food, humans easy to grab once the sun is down and they get greedy—except it is, to the other.

He paces around the room, unable to rest, eyelids damp and heavy, until Peco comes in, not mentioning names or faces, heading for the bathroom with an itch in the corner of his lips—_ don't be Mai, don't be Kouta, don't be anyone we knew, _ Micchi prays while pressing a pillow against his face. The feeling isn't shared, the infected filled with energy as he sits on the remaining bed later, hearing it wince under his weight. It's exhilarating, to feed on something alive, to obtain what his brain is always craving. Except it makes both of them monsters, somehow.

Micchi for allowing this pitiful routine to continue, Peco for eating people.

Is there still some human matter stuck between his gums? He doesn't bother asking, turning on his side with a groan, pillow thrown at the infected face. Half-infected, in a way. There isn't a term for people like this and Micchi isn't eager to pick one.

“Loser, you've been crying,” the pillow is thrown back, hitting his nose.

“Monster,” it's not kind; Micchi doesn't give a fuck.

Hotels were evacuated first, tourists, strangers, all vanishing without bothering to stick to a town they didn't even care about. Exodus, emptying Zawame of the living, forgetting a couple of souls behind. Employees are gone, not having stayed behind to protect what wasn't valuable enough. Many places are simply closed, rather than abandoned, as if people expected to return quickly. They find empty cup of coffee on reception desks, hidden from customers no matter how far they lean forward—umbrellas awaiting their owners, neatly organized together.

They use back doors, personal-only stairs, rarely meeting a soul. Infected are here—everywhere, awaiting for the right time to strike—although they aren't that difficult to avoid, when Peco is able to sense them first. Some attack him, others don't, there is no pattern, neither of them understand how it works, so they guard each other—Micchi's palm getting sweaty from holding Peco's and then struggling to keep a grasp on his gun, and the other laughing for no other reason than mockery—they survive.

Peco climbs on his bed, invading his space in the blink of a second. He is not fully-human, Micchi has to remind himself each time their faces are so close.

“Did you brush your teeth?”

“Mood killer.”

Which kind of mood were they having, exactly? Micchi rolls his eyes, a petulant pout on his face. Hygiene matters a lot more than the implications of Peco _eating out_. They should go downstairs, find something suitable in the kitchen. Fresh products have rotten; cans live on. Same with humans, which isn't the kind of thought he should allow. He's gnawing at his own heart, picking at it for no other reason than boredom.

The kitchens offer enough for a meal, Micchi fearful of maids coming in to scold him for trying to cook on his own. He has grown panicky, always on edge, expecting an infected to roam inside the room out of nowhere. Peco is different, heels hitting counter tops as he sits where he shouldn't, barely glancing at what he's making. He eats, if Micchi pushes him, finding everything bland and devoid of interest.

Still, he's the one who steals bottles of alcohol whose names Micchi doesn't know. He is aware of wine, of how delicate it can be, years mattering so much for a good harvest or a bad one from the same collection. Anything stronger—cocktails with vibrant colors and tiny umbrellas—that's not his forte. He lets Peco do as he pleases, unable to stop the other once he puts his mind into something.

They're teenagers for real suddenly, daring each other to drink more and more, only to make disgusted faces as they do. Peco chuckles—he does that often, a little mean, cocky grin and sunglasses slipping off his nose—grabbing the bottle as they sit on the floor in an uncomfortable fashion.

No monster under the bed, yet they know it might not be this way forever, that they have to lock the door and plan an escape route from one balcony to the other at worst.

It's not like taking a sip of champagne, back straightened out and polite smiles, it's a completely different experience. Being intoxicated is a relief, one too addictive in the span of seconds. What if he could cloud this mind like this every day? No more pesky brother in a corner of his mind—ah Mitsuzane would get slaughtered, ganged on by monsters mocking his inability to focus on his surroundings. A fair price to pay.

“I really—hate them. Zack and Kaito. They said—”

Woah, wait. Why are they having a conversation? Micchi yawns, sitting up—his cheek is hot from resting against Peco' shoulder for too long—wondering why the bottle is not in his hands since the other want to talk instead of chugging what's left.

“You'll be fine, we are definitely coming back for you soon. Liars. I hope they died.”

“They probably did, if they did not return.”

“Oh. Yeah. Okay.”

These sentences are the longest he has ever heard from Peco since they started traveling together which is—a sign things are getting better? He has no idea. Alcohol might help, covering the deception they are accustomed to, stuck into a town neither is able to leave. Humans—they wouldn't be kind, therefore Micchi tells himself he is the safest option for his friend, that their duo is meant to be above logic and basic needs such as _eating—_yeah humans are not to be trusted.

“If you saw them again, would you kill them?”

“Don't know.”

The answer is 'no', albeit Peco would certainly avoid them rather than engaging in combat, only to keep himself safe. He has scars more vicious than the one he received for daring to step outside out of hunger when he was still human—a craving for food, anything at all as long as it was alive, strong enough for his teeth to sink into his own body—not something Micchi was pleased to learn. They are good at pretending, both of them. Should he mention his friends though, to offer something in return? Or—

“My brother died. Went to the woods and shot himself, I never found his corpse. I looked—for hours.”

“He died?”

“It's what I said.”

“How can you be sure?”

The words are akin to a brick thrown into a wall. He lamented so much over himself, loss shaping each step he took since, recalling his brother each day in mundane things—a watch on a corpse, anything green enough to catch his eyes—that he had never considered this. Takatora unable to pull the trigger, shooting at a tree, wasting a bullet and running away in shame. _Noblesse oblige_ or something as tedious. His crestfallen expression must tell a story in itself, as there are suddenly lips against his, pressing only for a moment. He finds himself in a dazed stupor, as if none of this had happened and he had simply forgotten reality for too long. The bottle is pressed in his hands by cold ones, and he swallows as much as he can, immediately throwing half of it back on the expensive carpet.

“Dead people are dead, unless they're me,” Peco explains, unfazed, although he is not keen on pushing the theory that Takatora remains alive somewhere more than that.

Glaring at the almost empty bottle, Micchi considers throwing it right at his friend face, as payback for being cruel. Instead, it's more convenient to rinse his mouth with what's left—he is the one to kiss Peco this time around, desperate in a way he doesn't understand, vodka burning his guts and his tongue as he thinks he would be fine if the world ended here and now.

“Fucker. Brat. Asshole,” lips are light against his nose, then the forehead—he could almost forget the same boy had them covered in blood not long ago, teeth removing flesh and chewing on it until it would accept to be swallowed.

Peco doesn't bite him, although he wraps an arm around his shoulders as Micchi burst into tears for absolutely no reason other than his pathetic existence. Melancholy and alcohol are close friends, one encouraging the other until there is nothing left to pour except for salty regrets. And then, he sits with him in the bathroom as he throws up most of the bottle, humming a catchy song whose lyrics are long forgotten.

Peco removes his sunglasses, sliding them on Micchi's nose instead, laughing at his disgruntled expression. They kiss in hotel rooms, hoarding empty bottles and tripping against each other. They dance, boring stuff from rich parties, or what they are familiar with. Mitsuzane leaves his hoodie behind, neatly folded, he can get another he tells Peco, something warmer. Fall is surrounding them, and they walk on slippery leaves, laughing when one almost crashes down. They run, fingers laced tightly, avoiding infected and people with their guns or their baseball bats, awaiting for an opportunity to strike from behind. Micchi learns to blind with a flashlight, Peco remembers not to maul his food in front of the other.

They're together. It's fine.

Stunned horror is common, the kind where muscles refuse to obey, stuck into an endless loop of that's not happening. It's like keeping your cellphone with you although there won't be any service around for a long time anyway. They cling to tragedy, in an infected with pigtails, almost familiar until it's not, in a sister or a brother whose face is turning difficult to paint from memory—the voices, reminding them of past failures remain nonetheless. Mitsuzane doesn't recall the details, only that someone was running—must have been him, rain plastered against his face—and then they crashed down in a tunnel—sewers perhaps? No there was light, not much but still—and then everything was gone.

He wakes up screaming, hand pressing against his mouth without kindness. There is consternation, a hint of something different in Peco; worry or at least enough care to say 'fuck this'. It takes him a moment to understand, to remember delirious fever and the gun he lifted against his jaw only to throw it back. If Takatora—weaklings, that's all they are. Kureshima pretending to decide for the well-being of concerned citizens, unable to put an end to their own lives.

His voice comes out as something unholy, rage unable to fit in his body or mind any longer. The more he is struggling, the less Peco allows him to move, sitting on his chest, pinning his wrists to the ground. How did they get into that position? Did he do something? No, everyone is wrong, pissing him off, that's all. His heart is pounding, a growl passing his lips without awaiting for an answer.

“It's your fault!” he snarls, ready to turn Peco into one of them, the ones without a goal—humerus and femur visible, gnawed away by their tormentor, reduced to a mindless walk for eternity—that's all he deserves.

Tongue is out, taunting him, leaning too close, tempting Micchi to use his elbows to get closer, biting everything off. That's a distraction which is only causing his mind to be even more agitated.

“You ran into that zombie's arms, be glad he didn't rip your hand off.”

His wrist is bandaged, ugly blotches on red and brown everywhere from the floor—not a carpet this time, it's a Japanese-style hotel after all—to his clothes. That's not what happened, the thing ran after him for miles! Where was the monster of his life during his time? Probably almost dying, considering the gash on his shirt. He doesn't care about that. Neither he minds the rotten smell always present in Zawame or how they seem struck on roaming the same streets over and over. He wants—justice—familiarity—anything he can grab with his hands.

“Let me go!”

Months ago, the situation played exactly in the same way, except he had a gun and he thought of using it, rather than focusing on the tremors, the hunger reverberating through his body. Peco releases him without a warning, leaving Micchi breathless, gaze unfocused on the ceiling. Are his eyes damaged now? The same hint of red replacing brown? In a daze he takes out his cellphone, the one who ran out of battery a lifetime prior, shaking at his reflection on the screen. Same twisted expression, skin unhealthy and too pale.

Why isn't he empty? Feelings ravaged by primal instinct? Oh yes, he wasn't locked in a flat for an eternity, without any company or anyone to comfort him. He breathes, testing his lungs as if he was discovering their existence on this day. Sitting up is impossible, until Peco presses a hand against his shoulder blade, pushing him until he's upright.

“I'm scared—hungry—terrified.”

“I'll bring you a snack, later.” A body? Fingers? Akin to cocktail sausages, awaiting him on a silver plate, perhaps with a bottle of that cheap wine which makes Peco gag but Micchi has grown to appreciate. His mind is wrecking havoc, hands moving in the air until he is certain they are still attached to his body. Pain is there, dulled and hidden under layers of—fear and whatever he has become. It isn't Peco's fault, he remembers. Not the details, only that he thought—he mistook someone for Kouta, coming too close to be sure, until the infected turned around, leaping at him. He got bitten right there, the chase only the following part of a thrilling saga. He clings to his friend—lover, still friend before anything else—until Peco holds him back, joking about his hair having grown too long sand threatening to be the newly appointed hairdresser for both of them.

Micchi snickers, calling him the greatest moron of the universe.

He is sick of crying all the damn time.

They are not alright per se.

Monsters cutting pieces off corpse to put them in Tupperware so they do not risk of running out. They avoid the woods, roads slithering out of Zawame, bridges too high to be crossed. Perhaps the city will be nuked one day, like it happens in video games, their existences destroyed within seconds. They'll run, in a futile way, never letting go of each other. Bones crack as they run at anyone—anything—attempting to put an end to their wandering. They end up picking a place, luxurious suite in some hotel, bed so large they can lay on it without touching—eventually, they curl up against each other during their rare moments of sleep, unable to let go—glass windows proving that the sun is still there. They grow an array of plants on the balcony, Peco giving them nicknames such as 'nerd' or 'stubborn one' for not growing fast enough. Micchi dreams of vines invading the town, engulfing everything, more confused by the fact he can still _dream _than its meaning.

On Saturday, they randomly pick a day, calendars long gone, they go visiting malls or old places where danger is everywhere, shopping streets devoid of customers. They paint their face with glitter and makeup often ruined in shops, wearing matching clothes because it's the only way to stop Peco from only picking ugly shorts and shirts. Micchi climbs on empty fountains inside malls, dancing on them until other infected are heard coming closer. Then they run, bags in hands, glitter sticking to their hands.

There are other people like them, although they do not encounter them. In the same way humans remain, against all odds, present on Earth. The day where they hear rusty speakers outside, they cross their arms on the balcony, glancing at the van surrounded by infected who can't get it. It has been reenforced enough to prevent that, roof too high for hands to reach. The voice brings news, a call for survivors to join them into the safe place they have built not far away from Zawame.

“Come on,” Peco mumbles, brushing their shoulders together, “let's get back inside.”

They are out of view before anyone can see them, Micchi shutting down the glass door. He jumps on the bed next to Peco, ruffling his hair absentmindedly. What will they do today?

Had they waited a little longer, they would have heard another voice, someone else climbing on the roof of the van, calling for his younger brother to come home.

Does it matter?

Probably not.

“I never got to eat you~”

“There's still time.”


End file.
